


and you thought the lions were bad

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: First Time, Half-Sibling Incest, Hints at Future OT3, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They share nothing but a father, Bash tells Mary. (A father, and occasionally a bed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you thought the lions were bad

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. I just...really wanted fic about the two of them getting it on? So I decided to write it.
> 
> Title from "Daniel in the Den" by Bastille.

They share nothing but a father, Bash tells Mary. (A father, and occasionally a bed.)

Wrestling in the woods when they were just boys, getting lost in the castle when the fact that they _only_ shared a father meant nothing to them, politics and the future a distant concern.

Then Mary came along, and suddenly Francis’ future didn’t seem so distant after all.

\---

“Why aren’t _you_ betrothed?” Francis pouts one night in his bedchambers, seven years old and unfailingly stubborn.

“Because _I’m_ not going to be the king one day,” Bash tells him, sprawled at the foot of Francis’ bed, tugging absentmindedly at the sheets. He looks up at Francis’ loud sigh, watching him lean back into his pillows with that regal air that came so naturally to him, even at such a young age. “What? You don’t want to be king?”

Francis shrugs. “It seems like so much _work._ That’s all. And what if I don’t want to marry her?”

“Mary? You’re friends, are you not?”

“Doesn’t mean I want to _marry_ her.”

“You don’t have to marry anyone yet. Things change.”

\---

And things did. Mary was sent away, and Francis grew up— and even as their mothers grew more hostile, the boys grew closer.

\---

“ _Anne,_ ” Francis groans, dramatically burying his face in his pillow; fifteen and stubborn as ever, though this time mixed with a healthy dose of adolescent melancholy.

Bash crosses his long legs at the foot of Francis’ bed and grins, silently entertained by his brother’s ( _half-brother_ , his mother’s voice tells him) misery. “Why does she torture me so?” Francis murmurs, voice muffled in the pillow; Bash rolls his eyes.

“She likes to play games, that one. You’d be better off pursuing Elizabeth instead. Though if you want her so badly…you _are_ the prince.”

Francis twists to look at Bash, hair a tousled mess. “I don’t want to _force_ her.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to serve her prince,” Sebastian informs him, quirking an eyebrow suggestively.

“Perhaps, but I—” Francis pauses, forehead crinkling as he realizes— “Wait. How do _you_ know she likes to play games? You and she— you haven’t—”

Bash can’t help but laugh at the note of outrage in Francis’ tone; moments later, he finds himself on his back, wrestling with Francis until the smaller man pins him with fingers wrapped around his wrists, a knee on either side of his hips.

“How is she any different from Marie last month? Or Sarah before that?” Still breathless with laughter, Bash doesn’t struggle against Francis’ grip, grinning cheekily up at him instead. He would lose interest soon enough; he always did.

Sure enough, Francis relents, releasing Sebastian’s wrists and sitting back on his heels, though he doesn’t move from his place above Bash. “They were fleeting fantasies. Nothing more. Anne, though…”

Bash has to resist the urge to smirk as Francis sighs once more. Then—

“Fantasies? You mean you’ve never…?”

Francis flushes and makes to turn away, but Bash holds him in place with hands that make their way to his hips without his permission. Still Francis doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move to escape, and finally looks down at Bash, all pretense gone. “No. Never.” He’s defiant, defensive, holding Sebastian’s gaze as he asks, “And you?”

Bash hesitates a moment and then nods, watching Francis roll his eyes and attempt to pull away once again, muttering, “Of course,” under his breath. With everything in him screaming to stop, Bash tugs Francis too close and murmurs, “I could— show you, if you’d like.”

_This_ stops Francis in his tracks, turning back to his brother ( _half_ -brother, and suddenly that distinction seems more important than he’d ever anticipated), gaze flickering to his lips before he can help himself. “I…”

He’s caught off guard, speechless, and all Bash can do is sit up so his face is level with Francis’, still holding the smaller man in his lap, breath hot on his lips.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, feeling the prince’s fingers curl into his shirt—and then they’re kissing, inexperienced tongues and clashing teeth and a desperation that’s almost too much to bear.

Suddenly Francis is pulling away, pushing Sebastian back even as he presses his hips down, protesting, “Bash, we can’t— we _can’t—_ ” but the words are lost in a whimper as Bash captures his lips once more. “You think too much,” Bash tells him between kisses, working a hand between their bodies, ignoring Francis as he insists, “You don’t think _enough,_ this can’t happen, we—”

“We’re the king’s sons, and we can do as we bloody well please,” Bash informs him, blue eyes dead serious as he presses his palm against the front of Francis’ breeches, feeling him shudder at the touch. “Come now, what’s a helping hand between family?”

Bash can see, _feel_ the moment when Francis’ will breaks, eyes slipping shut as his hips roll forward, seeking more of his touch. “Fine, yes, _yes_ , just— keep _doing_ that.”

In moments, Bash has Francis on his back, breathless, gaze unfocused as Bash kisses his neck, teeth scraping beneath his ear; Francis gasps and arches up at the sensation just bordering on pain. Sebastian’s fingers work frantically at the laces of Francis’ breeches, pushing his shirt up until Francis pulls away long enough to tug it over his head. Exposed, a flush creeps into his cheeks, exacerbated by Sebastian’s relentless gaze.

The older boy traces a hand over Francis’ chest, feels the hitch of his breath as his touch slips lower. Avoiding his cock, Bash’s fingers slide down pale thighs before he moves back up to press their bodies together once more.

“Does this please your grace?” Bash murmurs, tone edging on mockery, and Francis laughs in spite of himself, in spite of the _situation_ , struggling to shove Bash away.

“What do you think?” He rolls his hips, wincing at the friction against Bash’s still-clothed body. “Take your clothes off.”

Bash pulls back just enough to catch a glimpse of Francis’ face, raise an eyebrow, and shrug. “As you wish.”

He divests himself of his clothing— “You _have_ done this before,” Francis marvels at the grace in the way he moves— and is back on top in record time, pulling Francis’ legs to wrap around his waist.

“What would you like?” Bash murmurs against Francis’ lips. The younger man just barely resists the urge to close the gap between them, instead scoffing, “I thought you were meant to show me—”

He’s cut off by his own groan as their cocks slide against one another, a torturous friction that steals his breath. Bash grins wickedly and begins to kiss his way down Francis’ chest. He reaches his stomach, tracing the scar Francis earned when they traded wood weapons for steel too early— old enough to know better and too young to care, and _the same could be said now,_ Francis nearly thinks, before Bash’s lips slide down the length of his cock and he forgets how to think altogether.

He’s torn between collapsing back into his pillows, hips arching up into Sebastian’s mouth, and sitting up, letting himself _see._ In the end, the latter wins out. If this can only happen once, he wants the image to last in his mind forever.

Bash’s dark hair falls around his face, messy and unkempt, and Francis finds himself lacing his fingers into the strands, his other hand gripping the sheets until his knuckles turn white. He catches a flash of blue as Bash eyes him best he can, and Francis moans as he feels Bash’s lips curve into a smile around his cock.

His tongue traces the underside, catching just beneath the head in a way that draws a whimper from Francis’ lips; the suction, the heat of Bash’s mouth is like nothing Francis had ever imagined, not realizing anything could _be_ this good.

In that same moment, Francis realizes that nothing this good can last— he never wants it to end, but he’s not sure he could ask Bash to stop for anything short of France’s total destruction. “I’m— I’m close,” he warns, and Bash hears it as the encouragement it is. Taking him as deep as possible, Bash’s fingers compensate for what he can’t quite swallow; the sensations (strong fingers, twisting tongue) continue to build until Francis is too far gone to hold himself back.

He comes with a hand pressed to his mouth, teeth leaving marks on his skin, because a shout would surely have drawn the guards— and that’s something Francis isn’t quite sure he could face. Still, the pain in his knuckles is nothing compared to the pleasure that spikes through him, leaving him thrilled and sated. He slumps back against his pillows, feeling heavy and nearly numb, though the realization that Bash hadn’t pulled away once sends a shiver down his spine.

When he can move again, Francis pulls Bash up to face him, letting the older boy’s body settle above his own. He looks absolutely debauched, lips red and eyes glazed with his own pleasure, a drop of thick liquid lingering at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, Francis leans up to press his tongue to Bash’s skin, watching his eyes flutter shut as he licks away the taste of salt.

Even as Francis pulls back once more, Bash presses their hips together and Francis can feel— _oh._ “Would you like me to—” he gestures vaguely, and Bash shakes his head, though when his eyes open, they tell a different story.

Ignoring him, Francis slips a hand between their bodies, noting that Bash does nothing to push him away. He enjoys the way Bash steadies himself with a hand on the bed, a low moan escaping his lips; Francis twists his wrist, curious to see what other noises will spill forth.

He strokes him the same way he does himself, just this side of too rough, and is rewarded by a shudder that passes through Bash’s body at his touch. He leans in to kiss Bash’s throat, the scratch of stubble against his cheek a new sensation altogether. It’s when he bites down, though, that Bash comes (and comes undone) with a broken gasp, hot against Francis’ stomach, already slick with sweat. He’s trembling, eyes shut once again as he falls to the bed beside Francis, breathing heavily.

All Francis can think is how much he wants to kiss him.

Finally Bash opens his eyes, sees Francis staring, and his silent laughter shakes the bed. “You look wrecked,” he tells him matter-of-factly, tracing a finger through the mess on his stomach and licking it off with a deliberate glance at Francis.

This time, the younger man doesn’t think; heat pooling in his belly, he leans in to kiss Bash until they’re both breathless and sticky once more.

Later, as Bash is gathering his clothes, Francis looks up at him from his place on the bed. “That was…very informative, Sebastian, thank you.” He tries to keep a straight face, but when Bash turns to him with eyebrows raised in disbelief, he can’t help but crack a smile.

Shaking his head (and still missing his shirt, Francis notes appreciatively), Bash laces his fingers in Francis’ hair and kisses him deeply one last time, murmuring, “If you ever need further instruction…you know where to find me.” Tugging on his shirt and running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to appear more presentable, Bash leaves him with a wink and a smile— and a hope that neither of them will think too closely about what this might mean.

\---

They never do.

Maybe their sparring matches are filled with a bit more heat, their escapes from endless strategy sessions a bit more purposeful, but nothing truly _changes._ There’s the constant rotation of women in their lives, but they always seem to find themselves in one another’s beds, spontaneous trysts filled with something deeper that they never quite acknowledge.

They never need to.

\---

Francis is seventeen when Mary arrives, and she’s beautiful and fiery and everything he’d never let himself hope for— and he sees the way Sebastian looks at her, and she at him.

_Perhaps_ , he thinks.

It’s a dangerous thought, but he kisses Bash, kisses Mary, and with the taste of the two people he loves most in the world on his lips, he imagines what could be.

—and, suddenly, he isn’t worried.


End file.
